


Made From Broken Parts

by RobinPlaysTrumpet15



Series: Obi-Wan "The Therapist" Kenobi and How He Changed Everything [19]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bullying, CT-7567 | Rex Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt CT-7567 | Rex, POV CT-7567 | Rex, Rex centric, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinPlaysTrumpet15/pseuds/RobinPlaysTrumpet15
Summary: Rex has always been defective, and more than a little broken.
Series: Obi-Wan "The Therapist" Kenobi and How He Changed Everything [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584874
Comments: 34
Kudos: 587





	Made From Broken Parts

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This story deals with bullying, self-esteem issues, and self-worth issues. If these things bother you, I would suggest skipping this installment.

Batch 75 was just over a year into their artificial gestational growth periods when its lead scientist noted something off about one of the clones.

They were all the equivalents of two-year-old human children. Most had shown signs of their permanent hair growing in for months now. They were all dark-haired and showing the tell-tale signs of the tanned Fett skin tone even through the unnatural blueish hue of the tubes. Except one.

CT-7567 was noticeably growing hair, just as he should be. There was one small problem.

It was blond.

It was marked in the clone’s notes and then the scientist moved on.

This wasn’t the first blond clone. There had been others, earlier on. Blond or blue-eyed clones who were quickly decommissioned. Later, they found it was an acceptable defect, as it didn’t change the clone’s behavior or ability to learn. Jango Fett had some recessive blond-haired and blue-eyed genes in his DNA, and cloning always brought the possibility that these traits would show up through some random mutation or another.

Still, CT-7567 would be monitored closely for any deviation from the norm. They didn’t want to provide the Republic a faulty product, after all.

*

Clones were decanted once they reached the age of three. This effectively made them six years old, developmentally speaking.

CT-7567 stumbled a little, walking for the first time, but then he was upright and running around with his batchmates just the same as all the others. Outside of his decanting tube, dry, bathed, and in the standard blue uniforms of the youngest cadets, he was even more noticeably blond. The clones had yet to get their very first haircuts, meaning the whole of Batch 75 had quite a bit of long, baby-soft hair.

Jango Fett stood passively, watching over the hundred new little clones. He’d walked past this batch plenty of times in the last three years as they grew in their decanting tubes. He’d watched 74 batches before this one have their very first run-around with one another, but it never failed to stop him in his tracks for a moment. Sure, they all looked like little Jangos, but that didn’t mean they weren’t cute. Not that he would dare say that out loud to anyone, but it wasn’t less true.

One particular little one caught his eye, though. The clone smiled brightly with a wide, baby-toothed grin as he was pulled around by two of his batchmates. The hair that hung messily to his shoulders was a bright yellow-ish platinum blond. He was like a beacon in the midst of all the black-haired children around him.

“I see you have noticed CT-7567,” said a calm, serene voice just behind him.

Jango did not startle, just turned slightly to see Lama Su as the Kaminoan joined him on the observation deck.

“He’s the blond one?”

“Yes,” Lama Su responded with what might have been a frown. “We will be keeping a very close eye on him.”

Jango did not respond.

He wasn’t supposed to become attached to the clones anyway. Not outside of Boba. Boba was his _ad’ika_ , not these kids.

Even as he schooled away the flare of anger at Lama Su’s words, he watched as another little clone reached out and yanked hard on CT-7567’s bright hair. Jango flinched briefly as the child let out a whine and burst into tears.

Lama Su made a displeased sound and disappeared off the observation deck. He was assuredly _not_ going to reprimand the second child.

Jango turned away too. That poor kid probably wouldn’t last long.

*

CT-7567 didn’t like CT-7517. There was a long list of reasons for that, but it started with having his hair pulled at three and currently ended with the bruise on his face now that they were five.

‘17 never gave ‘67 much of a break. There was always _something_ he was doing wrong in his batchmate’s eyes. And even if he wasn’t - even when his behavior and test scores were _perfect_ \- he was wrong. He was defective. It was a wonder he’d made it two years, ‘17 liked to remind him. It wasn’t just his hair that was wrong. No, that was just the visible part of it.

It was a mark. A brand. The thing that told everyone that he wasn’t like the rest of his batchers.

‘67 was not, and would never be, good enough. Not in his batchmate’s eyes and not to the _Kaminiise_ either. At best he would only ever be second. And second best in an army of the finest clones Kamino had ever produced was not good enough.

His cheek and eye ached as he made his way from the ‘freshers. He should be with his squad, but it was freetime and his squad never wanted him around anway. They were supposed to take turns being the leaders for training exercises, for the sake of practice, but he was hardly given a chance. And when he was, no one ever listened to him either.

The rest of their batch - the other nine squads - had named ‘67’s squad for them. No matter how much they all tried to protest and tell the other that wasn’t their name, no one listened.

Because they were the _Duse_ Squad. Rubbish. Waste.

Trash.

Any day now, ‘17 was sure, ‘67 would be taken away and thrown out with all the other defective clones and rejects. He wasn’t a true clone anyway. No true clone had _blond hair_. No clone cried over having his hair pulled or being beaten in a fight.

Not that it had been a fair fight. _Jatne_ Squad had caught him after their trainers left, pinning his arms and legs and letting ‘17 go to town with his fists. ‘67 had ended up very bruised after that little encounter. He’d had a black eye he couldn’t see right out of for a week. He’d been given a bacta patch the first day, but after that he had to suck it up and deal with it.

That had been a year ago.

He’d cried then, and CT-7568 had actually held him for a few minutes.

He wouldn’t cry now. It didn’t hurt as bad as it could anyway. He could still see and he didn’t feel at all lightheaded. He didn’t even need to see a medic.

No good clone cried, or cared that he’d been hit. One day, they’d see worse in the field. This was nothing.

If he couldn’t handle this, then ‘17 would be right. He should save the _Kaminiise_ the trouble of throwing him away and do it himself.

But he _could_ handle this.

And he’d prove all of them wrong.

*

Between five and eight years old, ‘67 acquired quite the rap sheet with the medics and head Kaminoan doctors. Very rarely did he get hurt in training exercises, tests, or run-throughs. But he did mysteriously accumulate bruises, scrapes, injuries, and -more than once- broken bones sometime in the middle of the night or during freetime when the trainers weren’t around to see. He never said how he got hurt, or what he had been doing past claiming he was exactly where he should have been, but the Kaminoans never questioned him for too long. Out of his entire batch, he had some of the highest scores and statistics they’d seen yet. Despite his physical “deformity”, he was one of the best. So as long as the medics patched him up quickly and his success rates didn’t begin to suffer, then they were content to look the other way.

A lot of his batchmates didn’t go by their numbers anymore. Not between themselves, anyway. They had names, either given by brothers or chosen themselves.

‘17 didn’t go by his number anymore. His name was Kitch. ‘67 didn’t know why and he didn’t actually care. But stars knew Kitch _loved_ to throw it in his face that he wasn’t “allowed” to know. Only a _vod_ would get it, and ‘67 wasn’t a _vod_.

‘67 did not get a name. Not outside the nicknames his batchers threw at him that he refused to acknowledge, anyway. They were mean and rude and he had better things to do than worry about what they thought.

Telling himself that didn’t stop the ache in his chest.

He didn’t want a name anyway. A name would single him out. A name would be another defect. He couldn’t afford another one.

On the sixth anniversary of Batch 75 being decanted, they went through their final training tests. The whole day was filled with evaluations, both in squad and individual settings.

‘67 was aching almost pleasantly and out of breath by the time his final test was finished. He hoped he’d done at least moderately well through all of them. He knew for a fact that he hadn’t missed a single shot in his marksmanship test.

“What do you think, ‘67? Do alright?” ‘68 - Robin - asked, popping his head over the edge of his bunk to stare down at him.

“I hope so,” he panted, still trying to catch his breath. He had run harder than ever before today. Those tests very well may have just decided who passed and would become troopers and who would join 99 on janitorial duty.

“We’ll see, Blondie,” Kitch sneered as he climbed past ‘67’s pod. The older cadet paused just barely long enough to reach a hand out and shove none too gently at his shoulder.

“That’s _not_ my name,” ‘67 shot back.

“Oh, _that’s_ right,” Kitch countered, stopping on the ladder and sending a dangerous smile down at him. “You’re so defective you don’t even _want_ a name.”

“Can’t believe he even made it this long,” Comb commented, climbing after Kitch.

“Probably got the lowest scores in the batch. He’ll be on the cleanup crew with 99 this time tomorrow.”

The three cadets continued to climb, all the way up to the very top pods.

‘67 most definitely didn’t slump into himself once they were gone. His chest didn’t ache in a way that had nothing to do with their rigorous training, either. Absolutely not.

Another body quietly thumped onto his bunk with him.

Robin nudged his shoulder into ‘67’s gently.

“You know better than to listen to what Kitch says. Don’t let him get to you.”

“He didn’t get to me,” ‘67 argued. “Nothing does.”

Robin stared at him, his not-quite-brown eyes going a little sad.

“Yeah, ‘67… I know.”

Then his little brother climbed back up to his pod and lay down, ready for sleep.

‘67 laid himself down too, hitting the button to close his pod and shutting out the rest of the barracks.

*

The next morning was a certain form of hell ‘67 had never seen before.

Batch 75 was up and off to first meal before they heard anything about the previous day’s tests. Most of them were still keyed up and excited, sure they’d done well. Kitch was positive he was top of the batch.

‘67 ate in tense, uncomfortable silence with Robin at his side. Robin and Pocket were his only two batchmates who at least usually tolerated him. Robin claimed he actually enjoyed ‘67’s company, but he wasn’t sure how much he believed that.

He also wasn’t about to call Robin a liar either. It was lonely when you only had two brothers who liked you. He didn’t want to know how lonely it would be if he had no one.

When the half hour meal was over, they shuffled along in the line to put away their trays and dishes, then back to their barracks. There was no set training schedule for the day. What they did individually after this would be decided by their test results.

‘67 trailed at the back of the group as they walked their through the corridors back towards the barracks.

“It’s probably not that bad, you know,” Robin offered. “I’m sure you did great.”

‘67 didn’t respond. Even if he had thought of something to say, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Up ahead there was shouting coming through the open door to their bunks. Most of the sound was good, but there were a few rather loud cries of outrage.

“Think it’s the results?” Pocket questioned.

“Probably,” ‘67 said glumly. He really had to snap out of this. Good soldiers did not feel “glum”.

“Come on,” Robin exclaimed, grabbing at ‘67’s and Pocket’s wrists. “Let’s go see!”

Robin shouldered their way through the crowd, bringing all three of them right to the front where a screen lit up the wall. It displayed several lists of designations, showing which cadets did best in what areas. Then, above all of those lists was one big one. The average results. Who statistically did the best over all.

‘67 scanned the specific lists first, surprised at what he found. In every aspect, he ranked at least within the top five. In most, specifically in marksmanship, endurance, and adaptability, he was first.

“‘7, look…” Robin muttered, awe coloring his tone.

‘67 followed Robin’s pointed finger upwards, eyes scanning the long list of designations, never stopping on his own. Until he reached the number one slot.

CT-7567, marked for ARC training and the command track.

“What…?” he whispered, eyes going wide.

An ARC trooper? _Him_? Defective and blond and _other_? He was going to be an ARC trooper and move on into the command track?

“You’re going to be an ARC!” Robin cried, launching himself onto ‘67 and hugging him tightly.

“Congrats, ‘67,” Pocket added with a smile and a friendly clap to his shoulder.

A different voice behind them quieted the room in outrage.

“WHAT?” Kitch roared. Rough hands grabbed ‘67 and spun him around. “ _You’re_ number one?! They’re making _you_ an ARC?”

Right in that moment, ‘67 made his worst mistake so far in his short life.

“Good to know you can actually read, Kitch,” he snarked.

The former cadet’s face morphed into pure fury, face going red. ‘67 could almost see the smoke curling from his ears.

“Care to run that by me again, Blondie?” Kitch growled, voice low and teeth gritted tightly. His hands curled in ‘67’s red uniform, dragging him so close their noses were nearly touching.

A newfound, stupid sense of confidence bubbled up from ‘67’s stomach. It planted a mischievous smirk across his face and made him look Kitch right in the eye as he spoke again.

“I said,” he reiterated, “it’s good to know you can actually read. I can speak slower if that will help you out.”

It was, officially, the stupidest thing he’d done to date.

“Look who’s all high and mighty now, boys. Now he’s top of the class, we better call him King 7567, huh? Or maybe just _Rex_.” One of Kitch’s hands let go of his shirt to wrap itself around his throat. “Well, _King Rex_ , let’s see just how _good you are_.”

Suddenly he found himself being swung around in Kitch’s grasp, then slammed into a wall. He heard more than felt his head’s impact against the durasteel with a sickening _crack _. Then the world went dark.__

__*_ _

__‘67 woke up in the medical center a day later. He was informed by one of the clone medics on duty that Kitch had cracked his skull and he’d been bleeding profusely. He’d been put in a bacta tank and would be perfectly fine._ _

__Unfortunately, he was being relegated to his medical cot until after first meal in the morning so they could monitor him for anything new popping up, like a random brain bleed. A medical officer ran a few tests and asked him questions about what he remembered, what happened, who he was, what his name was, his squad, his batch, his designation._ _

__Only _after_ all the tests were finished and he was declared mentally present and stable did the medics allow Robin and Pocket in._ _

__His brothers freaked out over him a little bit, worrying and telling him how scary it had been. They also informed him that Kitch was claiming innocence and self-defense, but most of the batch was refuting it. Kitch wasn’t going to be punished very harshly, however. For whatever reason, this wasn’t seen as a horrible offense in the eyes of the _Kaminiise_._ _

__“Robin thought you were gonna die,” Pocket added helpfully. “He cried.”_ _

__“He was bleeding, Pocket!” Robin cried, making ‘67 flinch slightly. “You were worried too.”_ _

__Pocket shrugged slightly. “Yeah, I was.”_ _

__‘67 couldn’t help the smile that grew across his face. It was weird, having his brothers openly admit concern for him. He wasn’t that special after all, regardless of what the test results said. He still had to work harder than anyone else just to attain the results that would keep him around another day._ _

__But it did feel good, he supposed. And maybe good soldiers could appreciate their brothers caring about them._ _

__*_ _

__Training was supposed to start up the next morning._ _

__Except it didn’t._ _

__‘67 had been unaware when the first newcomer had appeared in Tipoca City, meeting with Lama Su and Taun We and being shown about the compound. He heard whispers of it later, of the man in a long brown robe and hair that shined a pale reddish blond under the white lights. The man who was supposedly a Jedi, even if the clones had never seen one before._ _

__That had been the day of their final tests. Two days later, ‘67 was out of the infirmary and ready to start his ARC training._ _

__Then a second newcomer appeared._ _

__This one was nothing like the first man. He was small and green and looked to be, well… a hair on the older side. He walked with a cane and wore a miniature version of the first man’s long brown robe._ _

__Very shortly after he appeared, alarms were blaring through Tipoca City and every available clone who’d finished their training (or _almost_ finished in some cases) were mobilizing. ‘67 had no time to catch what platoon he was a part of, or the company, or even what _battalion_. All he knew was that he was, thankfully, kept with his squad, Robin and Pocket at his sides as they marched onto a Republic cruiser for the first time and flew away from the only home they’d ever known._ _

__*_ _

__A lot of things happened on Geonosis. None of them were pleasant._ _

__He watched brothers die for the first time. They cobbled together a new practice of funeral pyres and muttered words in Mando’a. He said his first remembrances._ _

__Robin died, and so did Pocket. Robin tried to smile up at ‘67, his helmet gone and blood seemingly everywhere. Pocket died alone, under a pile of clankers after they fell to a droid popper._ _

__‘67 hadn’t known what it was like to feel truly alone until he watched Pocket be carried to the funeral pyre by Kitch and Crash. He’d snarled on instinct and taken Pocket from Kitch’s grasp._ _

__Kitch, for his part, didn’t say anything. The look he gave ‘67 briefly wasn’t like any he’d ever seen. It was something akin to broken, and sad._ _

__His batchmate left to help elsewhere without a word._ _

__In their spare time, which did not come often, his batchmates welcomed him into the fold in a way they’d never done before, though it came at a price. They all seemed to agree without him that he did, in fact, have a name, and it was Rex._ _

__Not once was it said with any sort of derision or in a mocking sort of tone. It was said sincerely and naturally, like it had been his name all along._ _

__He didn’t want it. For a clone like him, a name was a defect. He couldn’t afford another one._ _

__‘67’s batchmates did begin to look to him for leadership, however. They’d never officially had sergeants to begin with, and they’d lost a lot of Batch 75 in the fighting. There were only two squads of them left. Just twenty mostly-shinies out of a hundred cadets who shipped out._ _

__And even Kitch looked to him for what to do sometimes._ _

__Soon, they got their orders. The remaining members of Batch 75 were heading back to Kamino to complete their training or move on to their next assignments._ _

__‘67, Caleb, and Kitch were the only three marked for ARC training who survived the first battle of the war. There had been ten. Now it was just the three of them._ _

__The seventeen others were assigned to squads in existing companies or battalions. He was thankful they were mostly being kept together._ _

__But if Geonosis had been any indication for how the rest of the war would go, that was of little comfort. It wouldn’t matter sooner or later. He wasn’t likely to be stationed with _any_ of his batchers once ARC training was over. Better get used to it now._ _

__He was built for the Republic, and he would die for the Republic. No amount of training or names would change that._ _

__*_ _

__On the first day of training, there was actually a lot of sitting around. They had to wait for all the trainees to arrive, and some of them had been caught up longer than others on Geonosis, or trapped in infirmaries by already-stern medics._ _

__There would be three classes of two small squads each for this round of ARC training. Usually it was one class of four squads composed of ten men, but this was an unusual circumstance._ _

__‘67 and Kitch were in a squad together. Caleb was placed elsewhere._ _

__He wasn’t happy to have his life-long tormentor in a squad with him, but it seemed to be his lot in life. He had to work harder, train harder, _try harder_ , in everything. No matter what. This was not different._ _

__Regardless of Kitch, ‘67 was going to make it through this._ _

__All three classes had been shoved onto a training deck as they waited for the rest of the future ARCs to arrive. ‘67 chose a spot on the floor not intentionally as far from Kitch as possible. But there was still a not unnoticeable amount of space between himself and his other two batchmates._ _

__Most of the men who were there with a couple of their batchmates were huddled close to them. Some of the batches interacted with one another, but as it stood, there was a clear separation. ‘67 sat completely alone, away from everyone else. He kept his eyes down, ignoring the odd looks he would get out of the corner of the others’ eyes. A few ARCs stood near the door, talking between themselves in a mix of Basic and Mando’a that was a little hard to keep up with. Their helmets would turn in his direction every so often, seeming to stare for stretches of time that left him uneasy._ _

__He wasn’t bothered._ _

__Good soldiers weren’t bothered by what others thought. Good soldiers didn’t care about anything other than getting better and being better._ _

__ARC training would make him better._ _

__He’d always fallen short, no matter what his final test scores said. This was the opportunity he needed ~~and was graciously being given~~ to improve and prove his worth._ _

__Prove he could be worthy of the effort spent on him._ _

__Despite all his defects._ _

__They’d been sent to third meal and then brought back to the training deck by the time all of the ARC candidates finally arrived._ _

__The very last group was a CC batch, specifically bred to be leadership. ‘67 didn’t catch the batch number._ _

__One of the ARCs who’d been watching them all day stepped forward after a minute, his back straight and head held high._ _

__“Listen up, troopers!” he called into the training deck. Every single one of them scrambled to their feet to stand at attention. “I am Alpha-17. My batchers and I will be your trainers. Now… I want you in line by assigned squad.”_ _

__There was a brief shuffle. The thirty of them found their way into single file lines, back to front._ _

__‘67 shuffled himself to the back of his squad. Kitch was in front._ _

__“Good,” the ARC said once the room was still again. “These are the men you will be with for the rest of ARC Trooper Training. I hope you get along, because if not - I don’t care._ _

__“Every one of you is here because you have been identified as some of the best out of your batches. Some of you will even be going on to become captains and commanders. Trust me when I say this training is not for the faint of heart. I have every intention of breaking you down to your core, and _you_ will be the one to build yourself back up again._ _

__“This isn’t like cadet training, troopers. Oh, no.”_ _

__The ARC reached up and pulled off his head. The smile he gave them was stern and sent a chill of fear running down ‘67’s spine._ _

__“Welcome to Hell.”_ _

__*_ _

__ARC training was every bit the hell Alpha had promised it would be. Most nights, he went to fall into his bunk (and actual bunk bed, instead of the bed pods they were used to) aching and sore and more than a little bruised. The ARCs didn’t go easy on them, not that ‘67 had expected them to._ _

__There were small blessings, too._ _

__Kitch mellowed through training. ‘67 didn’t like to spend time with him still, and he doubted he ever would. But his older batchmate didn’t jab at him the way he did through cadet training. He hardly made comments at all, outside of actual training. They didn’t interact in their free time, but the quiet was better than the teasing, at least._ _

__They were a couple weeks in. The three separate ARC classes didn’t interact much outside of meal times. Most of the time, ‘67 was with the same nine people from his squad and the other squad in the class._ _

__Meal times almost counted as downtime. After two weeks, the ARCs didn’t care much if they sat apart from their specific groups. That meant ‘67 was marginally alone more often than not, but it wasn’t like his squad talked much anyway._ _

__One day was different._ _

__He got his tray, sat down at the end of a bench like always, and ignored the way everyone else gave him a relatively wide berth. Most of the others tended not to sit within five feet. He didn’t know if that was by choice or just how it worked out, but he told himself he didn’t much care._ _

__But for once, a lone set of footsteps approached steadily, and stopped right in front of him on the other side of the table._ _

__“ _Su’cuy_.”_ _

__‘67 glanced up, not at all startled._ _

__The brother before him was just like all the others. Tanned skin, golden brown eyes, black burls cut in the standard regulation hairstyle. It almost made his hair look like it could be straight, but he knew better. Almost no clones had straight hair._ _

__This man was different, though. He had a long, jagged scar that curled around his left eye and temple. And he was smiling. _At_ CT-7567._ _

__No one smiled at ‘67._ _

__~~Not since Robin and Pocket.~~ _ _

__He stared at the newcomer, unable to think for just a split second. The older clone looked at him expectantly, expression calm and patient._ _

__‘67 couldn’t remember what he’d said._ _

__“What?” he asked, carefully willing the stutter out of his voice._ _

__Good soldiers didn’t stutter. _ARCs_ didn’t stutter._ _

__The clone smiled a little bit, the expression pulling at one corner of his mouth more than the other._ _

__“Hi,” he supplied. “Mind if I join you?”_ _

__‘67 frowned. No one had ever really _wanted_ to join him before._ _

__“If you want to,” he replied neutrally._ _

__The brother brightened again, then slid onto the bench across from ‘67._ _

__“ _Vor’e_ ,” he said, settling his tray onto the table. “My name’s Kote. You’re Rex, right?”_ _

__A flash of anger quickly followed by a spike of fear lanced through ‘67’s chest. Kitch and Caleb were the only ones who called him that to his face. He’d hoped it wouldn’t be spread around amongst the other trainees, but he supposed that was just too much to ask._ _

__Kote’s expression fell slightly as he watched ‘67._ _

__“Did I get it wrong?” he asked._ _

__‘67 didn’t know whether to agree or not. It was the name he’d been called, but…_ _

__“I-I don’t want a name,” he admitted quietly, averting his eyes from the man’s to stare at his food. It wasn’t as interesting, but that was fine._ _

__He could hear the confusion in Kote’s voice._ _

__“Why not?”_ _

__‘67 didn’t respond. If it wasn’t already obvious, there was something wrong with him. If Kote couldn’t see that, then ‘67 didn’t know what to tell him._ _

__“Well, for what it’s worth,” Kote continued after a moment of silence, “I think it suits you.”_ _

__‘67 grimaced._ _

__“But if you’d like me to call you something else, I will.”_ _

__He would never know what possessed him to say what he said next. Maybe it was the sincere way this new brother spoke, or the genuine way he said that name with no malice or ill will behind it. Maybe it was just how it came from someone new, outside his batch, who seemed to take an actual interest in _him_._ _

__Maybe he was just insane._ _

__“You can call me Rex if you like…”_ _

__Kote beamed at him._ _

__But Rex never did find it in himself to regret the decision._ _

__*_ _

__It was weird for Rex to be called by a name he didn’t hate. It was even weirder to think of himself with a name. He’d never really had a name before. He’d always just been CT-7567, or ‘67 for short. Robin had called him ‘7, sometimes. But that tended to get a couple looks from others nearby whose designations also included a seven._ _

__It hadn’t been weird to hear his number any time someone wanted his attention. It hadn’t been weird that his batchmates called him that. It hadn’t been weird that he was the only one who had just two brothers and who didn’t even want a name._ _

__But then-_ _

__Then one of his new squad mates called him _vod_. They called him Rex. No one but the _Kaminiise_ called him by his designation. Even Alpha-17 didn’t call him CT-7567._ _

__Kote introduced Rex to the rest of his own squad, and they’d smiled and invited him in with them easily. Like there was nothing weird or wrong with him at all. They talked to him and listened to what he said. They cared about his answers when they asked him questions. They teased and laughed and joked, threw casual arms over his shoulders and thumped familiarly at his back. Kote brushed their elbows and shoulders and hands together as they passed one another._ _

__It was so _different_. Rex hadn’t realized that it could feel so simple, so easy, to be close with his brothers._ _

__And soon, he realized that no one really cared about his hair. And when they didn’t care about that, he was just-_ _

__Regular._ _

__Rex didn’t know why that made him feel good._ _

__*_ _

__The end of ARC training came swiftly after the eternity it seemed to take. It had only been two months, but even still, they could have been there forever if Rex was asked._ _

__They were given their pauldrons and kama after a month, so they would have time to get used to them. They added weight to Rex’s armor, but not as much as he’d originally thought they would. After a month, he hardly even noticed them anymore._ _

__There was a brief ceremony where they were officially given their assignments and cans of different colored paint. Rex was promoted to Captain, assigned to Torrent Company in the 501st Legion, and handed a can of blue paint._ _

__They had one more night on Kamino before they would ship out to meet their new units._ _

__Rex sat with his squad for third meal. Kote’s squad sat with them because Kote had glued himself to Rex’s side and decided he would stay there. In no time at all, every squad from all three classes was sitting at the same long table, an uncountable amount of conversations going on around and on top of one another. The newly minted ARC troopers laughed and joked and shoved at one another happily, enjoying the little free time they had left before they were all sent off, back to the war._ _

__They’d already been away from it for so long…_ _

__Rex felt his smile slip away as he looked up and down the table, finding himself sitting smack in the middle of the bench. The brothers around him were no longer uniform. Their hair wasn’t the exact same anymore. Their eyes shined slightly different colors of brown and the armor displayed a whole rainbow of colors._ _

__None of them had been assigned together._ _

__Rex wondered if he would ever see any of these brothers again._ _

__His gaze settled firmly on Kitch, right across from him. Caleb sat at Kitch’s side. They both met his gaze instantly, their own smiles fading away as well._ _

__Rex didn’t think he would ever find it in himself to like Kitch. He didn’t think he would ever be okay with what his batchmate had put him through throughout their cadet years._ _

__But Rex realized suddenly that he didn’t hate the man. He couldn’t._ _

__In the end, he’d agreed with Kitch, and maybe deep down, he still did._ _

__Maybe that made him a little broken._ _

__But he supposed they were all a little broken, in some ways. And maybe that meant they were all broken cogs in a machine designed to function impeccably. Between them all, perhaps that meant the machine would never function correctly._ _

__But, Rex realized, the only people who’d ever expected true perfection out of him and his brothers were the _Kaminiise_. So in the long run, what did it matter if they were broken._ _

__At least they were all broken together._ _

__*_ _

__Rex was reeling. He hadn’t been called by his designation since the day the admiral had learned his name. Skywalker hadn’t addressed him as anything more than “Captain” until Rex had introduced himself._ _

__Sure, _Rex_ used his designation. He used it to ID himself and in introductions to senators and the like. It appeared on his communications, as well. ~~A real design flaw, if you asked the troopers.~~_ _

__But no one actually _called_ him CT-7567._ _

__Hadn’t for something like a year and a half._ _

__Until General Pong Krell._ _

__There really must have been something wrong with Rex. If he’d been better, nothing would have turned out so bad. If he’d been a better Captain, they wouldn’t have lost the men they did. If he’d been a better man, Hardcase might have lived. If he’d been a better brother, Fives and Jesse wouldn’t have needed to commit treason._ _

__If he’d been a better clone-_ _

__If _Rex_ had been better, it wouldn’t have happened. Somehow. He was sure of it._ _

__Cody would look at him like he was crazy if he ever dared to say that out loud. General Skywalker wouldn’t agree with him. Ahsoka certainly wouldn’t stand to hear it._ _

__General Kenobi ranting, yelling, and then screaming in the forest had been a shock. Him coming back, red in the face with tear tracks down his cheeks, just to legitimately hug as many of them as he could had been even _more_ of a shock._ _

__Rex had let the Jedi hug him, even hugged him back with an intensity he hadn’t meant to let show. Something deep in his core was trembling, and he worried it was Rex. The rest of the campaign was dominated by CT-7567._ _

__Sometimes, ‘67 just had to take control._ _

__‘67 was strong. ‘67 was top of his batch. ‘67 stood up to Kitch and went through ARC training._ _

__So for the rest of the day, until they could _finally_ get back to the _Resolute_ , ‘67 was in charge._ _

__‘67 could handle it._ _

__He could handle Krell and everything he’d done._ _

__He could handle Udo when he had to start arranging group therapy for his men._ _

__Rex would handle his brothers. Later. But the mission had to come first sometimes. And Rex would be there for his _aliit_ afterwards, when it was all said and done._ _

__"-aptain? Rex?”_ _

__Fives’ voice shook Rex out of his thoughts. He blinked, looking up from his lap. The younger ARC looked at him with careful, searching eyes. The rest of the squad had their gazes on him, too._ _

__"Sorry, Fives,” he apologized with a forced half smile. “Just spaced out for a minute. What were you saying?"_ _

__Fives frowned._ _

__"I asked if there was anything you wanted to talk about in therapy this week.” He paused, eyes locked on Rex’s with a calculating look. “You've been… a little out of it since returning from Kadavo."_ _

__Memories flashed across Rex’s mind, searing at wounds he’d thought long healed. Or at least buried deep enough they wouldn’t hurt so bad anymore._ _

__"No,” he said after a brief moment. “I'm fine."_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. We have some important plot coming, so just hold on tight. I know we were all hoping for a bit of comfort after Kadavo, and I promise it's coming. We just gotta work for it first.
> 
> I have a blog for this series. You can [find it here](https://obiwanthetherapistkenobi.tumblr.com/). Come check it out and say hi if you'd like!


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